


His and mine are the same

by Urimaginarygirlfriend



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Altered season 7, Angst, Betrayal, F/M, Fix-it fic, Hurt/Comfort, Minor Arya Stark/Gendry Waters, UPDATE—THIS WORK IS UNFINISHED AND WILL REMAIN SO, but very minor, it's getting really obvious i planned this out before the two last episodes of season 7, jon is a moron, minor jon/dany but no happy ending so beware
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-10
Updated: 2018-08-06
Packaged: 2018-12-26 00:52:22
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,581
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12047895
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Urimaginarygirlfriend/pseuds/Urimaginarygirlfriend
Summary: Title from Wuthering Heights by Emily Brontë.Jon comes back, but Sansa knows nothing will be as it was.





	1. See the thorn twist in your side

The wind is cold, slipping underneath her cloak and into the cracks of her dress, and she has to suppress a shiver. The cold unnerves her: winter is here, and the dead come with it. Jon has been gone a long time, and the cold only serves to remind her.

It's a haunting thought, a feeling caught in her chest, always on the tip of her tongue; Jon should be here. This is his castle, his people, yet he has abandoned it, them, for what he claims is their greater good. _He abandoned me._ She pushes that thought away, as she always does, but it still seethes in the corners of her mind. She is so very lonely here, even with Arya and Bran. None of them are who they used to be, but somehow that was easier to accept when Jon was there.

But he is coming home. The horn blows, the gates open, and Arya stands on tiptoes so she can see him as soon as possible. Bran sits silently beside her with an expression she can't read.

A stream floods through the gates, horses and wagons and banners, until the red and black Targaryen banner comes into sight. On a white mare sits a queen with silver hair, looking absentminded while her eyes fly curiously over this new castle. Her party consist of several dothraki and a man in heavy furs, and a small man she realises is the one she once called husband.

Before she can dwell on this, however, their own banner emerges through the gates, and a pair of men in furs enter the courtyard. Davos looks worried, as always, whilst Jon is searching the yard hungrily. She feels a pang of longing in her chest, and is careful to keep very still so her legs don't run to him of their own volition. He catches eye of Arya and Bran, and barely gets to jump off his horse before Arya is running to him.

They embrace, warm and long, much like she imagines she and him did in Castle Black, and when they break apart, Jon walks to Bran. He bends down to hug him, Bran placing easy hands on his back. Jon knows it as soon as he sees him: they have all changed, but Bran has become something else all together. Out of all the things she worries about, Bran is one of the most important, and she sees some of her own uneasiness in Jon when he pulls back.

Instead of saying anything, he turns towards her. She hadn't been sure how to react at his homecoming, but now it is a very clear matter. The way he looks at her makes it even clearer. She walks into his arms and lets him hold her a while, not as long as Arya or Bran, but long enough to quell some of the worry in her. He is warm, and his arms are tight around her while she closes her eyes. "I missed you," she tells him when he pulls away, but his eyes are sad.

The dragon queen approaches when they are done, a smile meant to be warm on her face, though Sansa spots an undercurrent of worry in it. When Jon notices her, he steps to the side and clears his throat. "This is Queen Daenerys Targaryen," he says, and Sansa curtsies whilst Arya bows, and Bran settles to bow only his head. Daenerys nods in return. "Lady Stark, Lady Arya, Brandon," she acknowledges.

Sansa remarks that she calls Bran only Brandon and herself Lady Stark. She mentioned in the letter she sent to Jon that Bran said he didn't wish to be the Lord of Winterfell, which leaves him without any titles at all, but she finds it curious that he has mentioned this detail to her. But perhaps it is not so curious. He has been gone a long time, and no doubt has spent much time with Queen Daenerys.

"Mayhaps we should retreat inside? I fear I am not so used to the cold as you are. And we have much to discuss," the Queen says, but just as Sansa is about to acquiesce to her wishes, Jon interrupts. "We can talk tomorrow, surely," he says, and the Queen gives him a look. Sansa knows it well enough: he is keeping her from getting what she wants, and she wants him to stop. It's the look of a king to advisors stepping out of line, not that of two equals. Sansa feels a shiver running down her spine.

Jon's look is pleading, not hard and unrelenting as it should be. "Dany, _please_ ," he whispers, and she can see their connection, something between them, in the Queen's eyes. The Queen sighs, and nods. "Very well. We shall speak tomorrow. In the meantime, may I be shown to my rooms?"

Sansa's head is rioting. Her heart is screaming. Everything about what has transpired is wrong: Jon's attitude, the way Queen Daenerys acts, the way the two act towards each other. He called her Dany. She doesn't let any of this show on her face, though, makes herself smile and tries to make it reach her eyes. It takes Sansa half a second to find her voice. "Yes, of course," she says, and introduces Daenerys to her steward that will show her everything.

Daenerys vanishes inside, and Jon steps towards her as the others retreat as well. She lets her face fall, lets him see she worries like she does, and his eyes shine with guilt, plead for her forgiveness. Sansa feels nauseous, something sharp twisting in her chest at his betrayal. She does not know what it is, but she knows it is there, and she can't bear to look at him for fear of it. She walks away from him briskly, and lets him join Arya and Bran behind her on the way to her solar.

Sansa feels like her skin is too tight. Everyone sits, except her. She stands by the desk, knuckles white as she grips the edge of it. Jon sees her, but he doesn't move. "Sansa," he says, and she turns to glare at him, eyes full of ice turned on eyes melting with sorrow. He must know now, the pain he has caused her.

"Tell me," she says, unrelenting. "Tell me what happened at Dragonstone and in King's Landing. Why does she treat you like that?" Bran looks distant, as always, but Arya looks between them with interest, wonders at her sister's seemingly only crack in composure since they reunited and Jon's defeated look.

"I gave up the North to her," he says, simply, the way it will stand in history books a hundred years from now. Time stops. Sansa does not understand him at first. Then a black pit opens at her feet and she feels like the world is disolving around her. Jon's face stings her soul, and tears burn behind her eyes. It takes a few seconds for her to remember she has a body, and when she makes to leave, Jon tries going after her. 

"I'm sorry, Sansa, _please_ , just-" but she cuts him off, puts her hands on his chest and shoves him away from her. She's never done such a thing before, and the shock and hurt on his face only makes her tears fall faster. She runs out of the room, through crowded halls and into her chambers, and cries herself to sleep without being able to tell apart the reasons why.

When she wakes, she is supposed to eat in the Great Hall with Daenerys and everyone else, but she feigns sickness so she can have her food brought to her room instead. She is fairly certain she hears Jon outside her door several times, but he never dares to knock, or call her name. She wouldn't have answered anyway, and she certainly wouldn't have let him in.

She can't find the right words to describe what she is feeling. There are so many things that throws her; the fact that she told him it was a trick to make him bend the knee and that he didn't listen, the fact that he's let Daenerys take control of him the way he has, the fact it didn't even occur to him that she might have an opinion about the whole thing.

She warned him, he didn't listen, and he completely went behind her back when giving up their crown. She can't bear talking to him. She can't bear facing his treacherous face and still want him to hold her like a child. She can't bear her own weak heart, so wanting to forgive such a grave thing. No. Distance is key here.

She barely eats of the lamb stew they bring her, and when Sam comes to visit her she tells him it is a simple headache, and that it surely will pass soon. She doesn't tell him that what she feels is nausea, for reasons she won't be the one to announce. Jon will get the joy of telling their bannermen, at least, and he deserves every bit of it.

She doesn't cry again, but when she goes to bed she feels empty, like a part of her has been stripped away. She'd like to think that part isn't Jon, but a cruel voice whispers to her just before her eyes drift closed. _He called her Dany._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gosh darn, folks. I need to make it clear I wrote this purely so I could distract myself from season 7. This was started before Sansa got that letter from Jon on the show, so things are a bit different. I have a bit more of this already written, so hopefully I'll get another chapter out soon, though the schedule might not be very regular.
> 
> Also, chapter title from With or Without You by U2, cause I am a literal trashcan.


	2. You can't choose what stays and what fades away

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa deals with Jon's betrayal, and has to navigate the presence of Daenerys Stormborn. Important truths are revealed.

Sansa walks the castle like normal the next day, tending to what needs to be tended to, answering questions and directing servants and doing what she has to. She is still the Lady of Winterfell, and even if Jon fails his duties as King, she will not allow herself to forsake hers any longer than a night.

It was bad enough that she didn't come to the feast last night, and that she wasn't there to support Jon during the announcement; they have looked weak the past day, and she will not be weak any longer. Weakness is what gets you deposed, and she can't risk loosening her hold on the fragile power she and Jon built so newly.

Arya came to her that morning, telling her she made sure nothing important was discussed without her. Sansa had hugged her little sister then, so happy there was someone to take care of their family when she couldn't take care of them herself. She is lucky in so many ways, but she still knows she deserves better than what she gets from some in this world. It stings all the more that it is Jon, perhaps the person she trusted the most, that went behind her back this time.

They are meeting with Daenerys today, and though Sansa now knows there really will be nothing to discuss, she still makes efforts to look imposing. She wears a new dress in richer fabrics, she styles her hair in the most northern fashion she can think of, and makes sure to be prepared for the Queen's requests and demands.

Jon finds her right before the meeting. "Sansa," he says, and realises it isn't his place to say anything more. Sansa still trusts him enough to let her discomfort reach her face. She doesn't know if the fact her guts tell her she should continue trusting him is good, or will lead her to her doom. Her stomach tells her it's the former, but then again, maybe her guts can't be trusted, either.

"I don't like this," she tells him briskly, "but I will stand by you if it means we can keep as much power as possible. We are still a family. And I will not allow this castle to slip from our hands again." She refuses to continue the conversation, instead turns around and waits for Jon to start walking and falls into step beside him.

The mood turns awkward as soon as Sansa steps inside. Since she was absent last night, she missed the opportunity to introduce herself to Daenerys' retinue, and she and Jon have come too late to make introductions now. Sansa recognises a number of people: Tyrion Lannister, her former lord husband, now the hand of Queen Daenerys, Varys the spider, a northerner Sansa assumes is Jorah Mormont of Bear Island, an unsullied commander and a girl about her own age whispering in Daenerys' ear.

She exchanges a nod with Tyrion and Varys, and when she catches sight of Theon, she gives him a small smile. His lips twitch as he gives one back, but she takes it anyway. The woman with the armour beside him must be his sister, Yara. Yara looks her up and down, but gives her a solemn nod as well. Sansa returns it with respect.

Brienne, Tormund, Lady Lyanna, Lord Glover, Lord Royce and Lord Cerwyn are all there to represent the North, as well as her brother and sister and Ser Davos. Bran has already been wheeled in, Arya sitting next to him. The two are talking solemnly about something, but Sansa doesn't hear what it is before she sits down beside Arya, and Jon takes the word.

Jon sits between Tormund and Jorah Mormont, away from her and his family. _At least he is not sitting next to her,_ she thinks, and casts a glance at Daenerys, ever beautiful and glowing.

The counsel does not bring much news. It merely settles all official business, and reaffirms them to their position before the recent wars: the Starks are wardens of the North, and Sansa is Lady of Winterfell. Bran seizes the opportunity to publicly denounce his rights as heir, passing his titles over to Sansa.

Sansa is above Jon in ranking now, but she knows the Dragon Queen will not enjoy that fact. She likes Jon better because she thinks she can control him, and Sansa does not know if she is right or not.

Jon leads conversations about preparations for the long night, and when she tells him about her plans for the food stores, he gives her a small smile. "I had not thought of that myself," he says. "Thank you. You have taken good care of the keep since I was gone." While his praise might have filled her with pride, once, it now seems like a stiff attempt at asking her forgiveness, and she doesn't like it. She nods, but doesn't say anything more.

Daenerys brings with her substantial armies, indispensable to their mission. Jon is finally confident they have a standing chance in winning, and after negotiations, it is agreed they will leave in a fortnight. This will give them time to gather more supplies and ready the armies, but Sansa knows it is a last attempt at letting the Northern Lords get used to the idea of Daenerys as their Queen. Arya insist she will go with them, and Sansa has no pretence of denying her, but she still feels something tighten in her chest. _A fortnight. That is all I will have before they're taken away again._

Daenerys has already asked for a private audience with her after the meeting, and the other Lords are dismissed when everyone is as satisfied as they can be. Arya presses a hand to her shoulder before she wheels Bran out, a last warning, but also a protective move. Be smart about it, but I'll be right there if you need me. Sansa knows it won't come to that, but the gesture warms her a few moments, until the ghost of her hand is gone. As the lords file out of the room, she sees Jon linger, but a look from Daenerys and another from her is enough to make him leave.

Tyrion stays behind as well, half out the door but looking between the both of them, frowning. "Lady Sansa," he says, and turns to face her properly. "May I request a private audience with you tomorrow? It has been far too long since I saw you. I believe we will have much to discuss."

Sansa waits a moment. "I am very busy, my lord," she tells him, "but I do not see why I could not find the time tomorrow. I will be ready to meet you in my solar at noon." He nods, closes the door behind him and leaves her alone with the Dragon Queen.

Daenerys sits in a chair at one end of the table, Sansa at the other. The Queen gracefully seated herself in her lord father's chair, leaving Sansa to a regular one. The nerve of it doesn't anger her, only makes her sad while she wonders why Jon would ever give up his kingdom for her, who presumes to take what is rightfully that of others.

Daenerys sits tall even with her lesser height. Sansa cannot dismiss the feeling Daenerys only sees her as someone to be kept in check, and that she wishes to simulate a personal attachment, built around shared feelings and views rather than the actual truth of their situation.

Sansa has noticed that Daenerys usually has a stoic face, emotionless and cold, but that she can be full of fire when pressured. She sends Sansa more smiles than the others, because she is Jon's sister and Daenerys knows the North is hers by rights, and that she is the one she has to please if she is to avoid an uprising.

"Lady Sansa," she starts, smiling that charming smile of hers. If this were any other place and any other person, whoever sat in her chair would start melting. Sansa has a clearer mind than ever, and is determined to get this over with as soon as possible.

"I know you were not consulted when your brother made the decision to give up his crown. I hear you are very close." Daenerys pretends like this means something personal to her, giving Sansa the opportunity to become more than an ally. Sansa guesses she hopes Sansa might take her close relationship with Jon as an example, and confide in her so she might more easily control her, like she does Jon. Sansa remains cold. She has already lost, and will not lose more.

"Yes, your grace. He is very dear to me." Daenerys doesn't seem thrown by this development. Instead she continues, "And what is your opinion of his choice? I understand it is not normal of you northerners to kneel easily." Sansa is growing tired of this. She wants it to be over, to not have to face Daenery's misplaced charms.

She has lived too long to put herself in another situation where she has to lie to her teeth for a Queen to let her stay alive, to let her keep her castle and her family, so she will be honest, commanding the respect only a Stark can. Daenerys will know she is dealing with a different breed, and that she has to watch herself if she is to keep her hold on this kingdom. Hopefully this cold but dutiful attachment will give her the respect she deserves.

"You are my Queen now, your grace, whether I like it or not. I cannot undo my brother's actions, no matter if I wish to." Sansa knows that those are dangerous words, but she has learnt to be truthful. Flattery and diversion will not work here, and will only succeed in estranging Daenerys from her.

"We have all lost too much," she continues, and knows they agree on this, at least. "There have been too many wars, and there's a great one ahead of us, still. Believe me when I say I want the best for my people."

Daenerys smiles amusedly, in an expression that may be meant to signal mutual content, or even pride. " _My_ people, now," she tries clarifying, implying they both have the same interests, still smiling. It's a peace offering if Sansa ever saw one, but she needs Daenerys to understand this. Sansa sighs.

"No, your grace. They will always be my people." She sees Daenerys' face slip as soon as she says the words, but she does not regret them. She is telling her the truth: the North will only be cowed because they are ruled by Starks, and thanks to Jon, the Starks answer to the Iron Throne. Still, she must make clear her intentions.

"But I am your subject; you receive our taxes, and I swear never to take up arms against you. We have made a pledge to stand together, and I mean to honour it. That is all I have to say, your grace."

She rises and curtsies, leaving the room gracefully. She does not wait to be dismissed; Daenerys must understand that her cooperating in giving up the crown and giving her this valuable insight in the northern situation is the farthest her love for Jon and her people reaches for today. She's swallowed her pride, and Daenerys will have to take what she gets.

Honour and oaths; those are the only things binding her to this Dragon Queen, and neither are hers. She'll defend Jon because no matter what, he is a Stark, her family, and she refuses to lose more of it. 

 

Jon finds her later that day. She's in her office despairing over the food stocks, as always, when he clears his throat behind her. She looks to see who it is, but turns away when she sees it is him. Pain grips at her, like hands clutching at her chest, making it harder to breathe. She forces herself to stay calm.

"Can we talk?" He asks, and she knows they will have to, some day, but right now, all she can do is shout at him, and she will not allow that. She stays quiet, wishing he would just go away, so she could be left with her pain in peace. Jon is not about to fulfil her dreams, though. She can feel him taking a step towards her.

His voice is pleading, pained, the very sound of agony, and it only makes it worse that Sansa knows it is genuine. And still he dares to talk like he does. "Sansa, please, I am so sorry, but you don't know _why-_ "

Sansa whirls around, a hurricane of red hair and hurt about to release on him. "I can't look at you!" She shouts, interrupts his never-ending attempts at making things better when he only makes things worse. "I can't look into your eyes without feeling the knife twist in my back again!"

That is enough to silence him. He looks into the ground, trying to give her at least that relief, but it doesn't make anything settle in her. She takes a shaky breath, calms herself. Shouting will achieve nothing, and ladies do not shout. Wardens do not shout. _Father never shouted._ But for all she knows, her father never faced a betrayal like this, so he might very well have shouted in her stead.

"Can you see what you have done?" She asks, and she doesn't want an answer, only wants him to _understand_. "Do you see the scope of this? Exactly how much it pains me?"

He doesn't say anything else. It's obvious she isn't ready to hear him, and she won't apologise for it. This is all his fault, anyway, so he'll have to take the consequences. She knows he cares for her, she can't deny it, so he'll have to take her pain as a punishment, just like she does. It's that thought, that he's in pain because she is, that breaks her up again. Her eyes water, lips twitching and losing control.

"And it's _horrible_ ," she cries softly, sobs at him but refuses comfort, "because _I love you_ , and you are still family, but _gods_ , if this hadn't been easier if I could bear to never see you again." A sob escapes her when she realises it's the first time she's told him she loves him, but she pulls a fist to her side and pushes it to her, forces herself to concentrate on the feel of it against her ribs, to forget her sadness.

She wipes her tears on the back of her hand, and she knows her eyes are red, knows she'll have to stay inside her room a while before going out again. She prays she won't cry any more, so she can be back outside as soon as possible. She doesn't have any more to say right now. Jon finally looks at her again.

"I'm sorry," he says, voice weak and sad.

"I know you are," she says, sniffles to strangle the last of her crying, "but it doesn't change anything. I love you, but I can't forgive you. I can't. Not yet."

He casts his head down and leaves, like a dog with its tail between its legs. As soon as the door shuts behind him, she turns and shoves a book off her desk, and doesn't bother picking it up. She sighs. Wardens do not shove books off their desks. Father never let himself succumb to anger that way. _Father never wanted to forgive those who betrayed him._

 

Arya comes to her, while she's knitting in her solar. Her sister never approaches her when she is busy; somehow she always know what she is doing, but Sansa does not worry about it. We need to trust each other, she'd told Arya, and those are words she means to live by. With regards to her sister, that is.

Arya sits down in a chair opposite her own, slicing pieces off an apple with her knife. It's the same dagger that slit Littlefingers throat, but Arya does not seem to mind. She cleans her weapons well, anyway, so Sansa doesn't see why it should matter.

"I know it's hard," she says around a mouthful. Sansa doesn't stop her knitting. "I'm so angry at him, I truly am. I understand he's doing it for us, but it still hurts. But it's worse for you, probably. I never got to see him rule. I never took it back with him."

Sansa sighs, puts down her knitting. "It's not that I don't understand it, because I do," she says, feeling everything inside her starting to slip out. "But it still hurts. He's been doing it ever since I saw him again; he doesn't ask my opinion, or he asks and ignores it. And it's just so... hurtful, that he'd continue that into something like this. He's still my brother, but it's so hard that he forgets me."

Arya shakes her head. "He doesn't forget you. He's always talking about you, praising you. He cares an awful lot about you, not like when we were children." Sansa's disbelief shows on her face. Arya notices, stops. "What?" She asks. "Don't you believe it?"

Sansa sighs. "I don't know what to believe anymore." She picks up her knitting again, pins clicking against each other rhythmically. "Maybe he cares. Deep down, anyway. But I find it hard to believe he's suddenly praising me now because he has a genuine wish to do so. And if he does, it was sparked by all this anyway. I don't want that. I don't want his approval if he only gives it to try and make up for all this."

Arya takes another slice of apple into her mouth, chews it while she thinks. "You have to talk to him," she says. "You have to sort this out. The pack survives, you know it." Sansa takes to her knitting again. "I know. And he'll always be a part of the pack. But I can't talk to him yet. It's too fresh. I tried today, and I ended up yelling and crying at him. But I must do it before you leave, that is sure."

Arya seems content with this. "Good. I'll see you around." She jumps out of her chair and leaves the room, closing the door silently behind her. Sansa sighs, knits on. Pretends her mind isn't a muddle, the practiced motions executed by themselves, while her head is so absent she doesn't remember to change for dinner until she only has a few minutes left.

They are dining with Queen Daenerys and her closest advisors. Sansa does not know exactly who will be there, but this is a good opportunity as any to show off her new title. She's tended to wear greys, ever since she came in a position to choose her dresses herself, but today she is wearing a gown of deep Tully blue, red ribbons sown onto the seams to make her allegiance known.

The dress used to be her mothers, hidden away in a chest for years until Sansa found it again during excavations of the ruins of Winterfell. Her goal is to remind Daenerys of her connections: she is tied to both the Vale and the Riverlands, and Daenerys would do well to remember.

She plaits her hair before she leaves, the way her mother always used to. She looks into the mirror, and she can see the likeness. If she'd looked like this sixteen years ago, anyone could have pointed to her and said she was Catelyn Tully, and no one would bat an eye. She finds herself missing her mother, who surely would tell her they are not similar at all, if only to keep the weight of her heritage off her shoulders for a few minutes.

Her mother would kiss her cheek, squeeze her shoulders. She would be plaiting her hair herself. She would lean down and whisper in her ear, _you look beautiful, little lady. You've made us so proud. Now go and show them exactly who they're up against, hmm?_

That's what spurs Sansa out of her chair, her mother's ghost reassuring her and somehow soothing her nerves. Sansa leaves her room for her solar, which is probably crammed up with chairs to have enough seats for everyone invited. Sansa is late, and sets a brisk pace towards the others, leaving her cheeks red from exertion and a few wisps of her hair free around her face.

She stands before the door, which is opened to her by one of the guards. She steps inside, everyone else already seated and waiting for her. All eyes are on her, gleaming in the gentle glow of the candlelight, and Sansa suddenly feels insecure, like her skin itches with the weight of their looks.

While some of Daenerys' advisors look shocked, including her former lord husband, perhaps at her beauty, Daenerys looks implacable, like her lateness is only a minor nuisance at best. Bran smiles gently at her, like he knows something nice that she doesn't, and the change is a welcome one. Her sister smiles as well, after the shock of a few moments, and Sansa is scared she might have confused her for their mother, just like she did herself, looking at herself in the mirror. Brienne has a very similar look about her, whilst Tormund seems unfazed. Davos is frowning, as always.

But it is Jon's look that throws her. If his mouth isn't open, it is the next thing to it, and his eyes pour into hers with the force of a hurricane. She can't stop herself from blushing, and moves quickly to her seat. She thinks that people might have forgotten the parentage her dress was meant to symbolise already.

(She doesn't know that Jon has problems looking away from her, and is very, _very_ well aware of her parentage.)

Sansa curtsies in Daenerys' direction and sits down, gives a nod to Tyrion and Ser Jorah. She signals for the servants to start bringing in the dishes. First a soup with tomatoes and good meat, followed by a huge ham Sansa picked out especially for the occasion, sided by potatoes and onions covered in butter. Then there is pie full of gravy and sausages, and for desert she's asked the cook for plates of honey and lemon cakes.

The dinner does in no way fit Westerosi standards. But this is not a feast, and they are in no situation for indulgence. Sansa announced a plan for rationing food that included the nobles just hours before, but she is sure no one pictured this was what she had in mind. Still, the food is delicious, and they've all been brought up not to complain about good food.

Sansa spends most of her time talking to Arya and Bran, and smiles and answers all questions from the others with interest. She compliments the cook several times to make up for the lack of food, showing very intently that this is exactly what she planned, and that she will not apologise for it. If anything, she hopes it will make her look more responsible, but knowing people as she does, she won't take that victory in advance.

Just as Sansa takes a nimble bite of a lemon cake, which she knows will be the last in a long while, Bran loudly clears his throat beside her. Silence settles over the room.

"My lords, my ladies. Your grace." Sansa realises Bran might have stood now, if he could. The thought makes her dizzy, along with the arbor gold she's been taking sips of. Bran hesitates just a moment. For some reason, a shiver runs down her spine. The lemon cake feels dry in her mouth.

"I have some important news for us all. I now know who Jon's mother is." He lets these news settle on all of them. Jon's eyes are wide and full of fear. She's never seen him like this before.

"Jon Snow is the trueborn child of Lyanna Stark and Rhaegar Targaryen." Sansa's heart beats, once, twice, before she realises what has been said, and exactly what it entails. She looks around, searching for something to hold onto. Jon looks like he just fell from the sky and doesn't know where he is, and Sansa supposes he doesn't.

Jon rises, and leaves them all behind. No one dares come after him. Bran looks calm as ever, a sharp contrast to the disbelief on everyone's faces.Sansa turns to Arya, just as stricken as herself. "It is important these news do not spread until we have decided how to handle them," Bran says. "We will meet tomorrow to discuss it. For now, I think it best we all retire."

Sansa is the first to leave after Bran speaks. She mumbles a hurried excuse and walks to her room briskly, though she does not know why she acts as if she has little time. 

It's such a small piece of information, yet it changes so much. Jon is not her half-brother, he is her cousin, and the nephew of Daenerys Targaryen. Her father lied to them all for years, hiding a Targaryen under his roof with the risk of being charged and executed for treason. No one knew, not even her mother. Her mother couldn't have known. She disliked him too much for the dishonour he put upon her to know he never was Ned's son.

Jon is the result of a war. He is the _trueborn_ son of Lyanna Stark and Rhaegar Targaryen. He has a more legitimate claim to the Iron Throne than Daenerys Stormborn.

She can't sleep for a long while, and imagines Jon is somewhere else in this castle, staring into his fireplace just like her. She sighs.

When she finally goes to bed, the wine has caught up with her, and though she's so clouded with thoughts she can hardly tell them apart, there is one that stands out: Jon is, and will always be, a Stark, and he's part of her pack as long as he stays loyal to them.

But she still can't forgive him. There's something deep inside her still holding onto the hurt, and if there is one hing she has learnt, it is not to rush forgiveness. It only causes you more hurt later, and she's been hurt too many times to forget.

Her last thought, before her eyes grow heavy and drift shut, is that Jon is her cousin, and that somehow, in her hazy mind, out of all the things that shouldn't be happening but still are, that is the only one which doesn't feel wrong.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ... I really hope I didn't ruin it? I know this chapter is a lot longer than the first one, and it ended up including a lot of things I wasn't originally planning, but I hoped it turned out okay. Chapter title from 'No Light, No Light' by Florence + the Machine, which fits the theme of this whole thing very well, if you're interested. Anyway. Thanks for reading and leaving nice comments!!


	3. Shadows settle on the place that you left

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Times are changing, and it is clearer now than ever.

Tyrion waits in her solar at noon, just as she instructed. He has poured her a cup of wine, which she gracefully refuses. She has never taken to the habit of drinking it casually, and will not indulge herself in the middle of the day. They are running low on wine already, and she will not contribute to the lack of it.

"It's terrible," Tyrion says, sits down on a chair opposite her desk. Sansa sits down in her own chair, letting herself study him. He is much the same as when she last saw him, but with a humbler attitude, no more Lannister red or gold, and a new pin on his doublet. His hair is longer, as well, and he has a few more scars on his tanned face.

"Yes, indeed," she says, and knows these words say so terribly little of the exact scope of the situation. She hasn't seen Jon since last night, and has no idea how he takes it, or how she can help him. The whole thing is too big for her to imagine, so she instead takes on Jon's duties, letting him have his privacy.

Tyrion shakes his head. "I could never have imagined it. I bet you couldn't either," he says, takes a sip of wine.  
"No," she replies. She does not wish to dwell more on this. It's Jon's business, all of it. Sansa feels bad just talking about it behind his back, like it's the gossip it undoubtedly soon will become. She is not that selfish, tittering girl anymore, who might have thought such a scandal would need extensive discussing with her dearest friends.

She clears her throat to prepare Tyrion for her change in subject. "What do you know of what happened to me after King's Landing?" She asks. Tyrion looks a bit shocked by the brutality of her question, his face freezing in a startled expression. He is used to political conversations being full of deceit and things hidden between words, but Sansa has no intention of continuing this with him. It must be more obvious to him than ever how much she has changed since he last saw her. He sighs, a sad sound she is tired of hearing.

"I heard you were raped," he says. "I heard you were tortured. But what happened between King's Landing and Winterfell, I know nothing of. Littlefinger had some part in it, though, that I know." She nods, and he looks at her with such a pleading look she knows he still cares for her, in that twisted way of his. He was always different, she knows this. He will most certainly tell Daenerys, but she knows that will happen sooner or later, anyway.

"You are correct," she says. "Littlefinger got me out the night of Joffrey's wedding. He had it planned for a while, he even told me, though I didn't know it was him at the time. He took me to the Vale, and made me pretend to be his niece. He married my aunt Lysa, and killed her when she turned jealous. Then he took me to Winterfell, so I could marry Ramsay Bolton." 

They both know what happened during her marriage to Ramsay. Everyone knows. She doesn't wish to talk of it. "Theon helped me escape him, the night he defeated Stannis Baratheon. Brienne found us, she helped me to Castle Black, where I found Jon. We rallied the North, and with the help of Littlefinger, we won Winterfell back. The rest you know."

Tyrion takes another sip of wine. "They crowned your brother King, and he went to Dragonstone. You executed Littlefinger before he came back." He says this with more optimism than before. It is clear he prefers discussing their current situation to her previous one. She agrees, but she can't keep from correcting him.

"My cousin was proclaimed King," she says, "and it was my sister that executed Littlefinger." He nods empathetically, though Sansa doubts he actually cares about the point of these distinctions.  
"You should know I understand your situation," he says. "It cannot be easy, to take your home back after so long, only to have it taken away again. But Daenerys is a good Queen. She will treat you justly, as his her duty. And she will surely be indispensable in the war against the Others."

She has not known him long, but she is starting to notice a pattern. Tyrion says he understands the situation of whoever he is talking to, and then advises them to do what benefits himself, though he poses it as benefiting them. Sansa laughs. This might fool or affect anyone else, but she knows him, knows manipulation and tactics better than he thinks.

"I know she is a good Queen," she says, though what she really means is that she knows Tyrion will insist she is, despite her not being sure yet herself. "But will it take away the fact that the crown my brother fought for is gone? That he died for nothing?"

Tyrion seems uncomfortable with this reminder. Sansa is more confrontational than he thought. The North remembers, and he should learn it sooner rather than later. Sansa sighs. "I don't understand what you want from me. To be happy with this development? I never will be, but I accept it. If Jon had asked me, I would have refused, and he might have listened. But he didn't ask me, and I can't change his mind now. What's done is done. Dwelling on such things will give me nothing but pain."

Tyrion remains silent. She realises he might not ever have been sure what he wanted from her, and he will need some time to adjust to what he's been given. She's changed so much; she can see herself through his eyes, for just a moment. That girl had been so simple: lie or die, flatter and survive, not anything like the honest, demanding woman in front of him.

Tyrion seems to decide they've exhausted the topic. "Daenerys means to keep our marriage legitimate," he says, as if he is saying the first thing that comes to mind. "She has much to win by making such an alliance, and pretending we were married in the first place will only give it more weight, should she go through with it."

Sansa cannot pretend to be shocked, but the words send worry coursing through her all the same. She doesn't want to have played this game so long, only for her claim to be used by yet another Queen.

"We were never truly married. Everyone knows this, and Daenerys is no fool. I am sure I can say we both do not consent to this without giving offence," she says, and Tyrion shakes his head.  
"No, my Lady, you are correct. No offence taken, none given." Sansa nods as well.

"Tell the Queen I will take the official annulment of our marriage as a gesture of good will. It is my only condition in this matter. I know you can afford giving it to me. I would take it very bad should she refuse this." Her nervousness and fervour shows slightly, but it doesn't truly matter. Anyone could guess her stance on this. It might even elicit sympathy on Tyrion's side.

She has been cooperative throughout this process, but if Daenerys does not consent to annulling her marriage to Tyrion, that attitude will take an abrupt turn for the worse. Tyrion knows Sansa can make this situation much more difficult if she wants to. He nods solemnly. It seems that is what he does most; act and look solemn, nodding or understanding. Sansa sighs. She has other things to do, other things to worry about.

"I'd like to hear the story of how the Lannister heir became the hand of Daenerys Stormborn," she says, "but that must wait for some other day. I am a very busy woman, as you know. If you will excuse me." She rises, him following suit, but he interrupts before she reaches the door.

"I thought I should tell you," he starts. "The Queen and your cousin are very close. I would not be surprised if the two decided to marry."

Sansa can't keep down her shock. _"Marry?" ___

____

____

"Yes? It makes much sense, you have to admit, and with their... connection, it would not seem to me like a bad match." Sansa can't think straight. _Their connection? Marriage?_ The thought fills her like a loud noise. She shakes her head.

"I know of no such thing," she says. She leaves him then and there, without another word. She walks through the halls so fast her heart is speeding by the time she gets outside, and the cold hits her with a force, burning in her lungs with every breath she takes. She forces herself to calm down, heaving in the doorway, tears burning behind her eyes. 

She has endured enough as it is. She has lost too much to lose Jon as well. _But if Jon presumes to abandon me again, I'll make sure that is the last he sees of me. He doesn't deserve betraying me for her, to marry her and still keep me. He doesn't. Not again._

\---

Sansa leans over the household accounts and sighs. The numbers are starting to bleed together on the page, and yet she knows one thing: they do not have enough food. Weapons and armour are things they can find and make and keep, things they will have throughout the cold. They do not have enough food for a winter, and certainly not enough for an army at war. 

All of it would be much easier if Daenerys hadn't burnt the food stores of the Reach. Yet what is done is done, and imagining cart upon cart filled to the brim with grain and vegetables rolling in the gates of Winterfell won't help her. She has gathered all the food there is to be found in the North. The Vale is sending food as she sits there, but only for their own forces, and still not enough. 

What she needs is gold, and time. If she had those two things, she could buy food in Essos and have it shipped over the narrow sea. But the coffers are almost empty, and the Night King stands at their door: they have received reports from Tormund at the Wall that they have seen the army of the dead too much for their liking. 

For not the first time, Sansa wishes Jon was there. It is all much easier when she is not so alone. Bran only talks to her in riddles, Arya is caught up with her work and her own friends, whilst Sansa does all she can to prepare her people for winter, and it would be nice, she thinks, if she could have someone tell her everything would be all right, that she needn't worry so much. 

A pair of broad shoulders to carry some of the load, to take the ledgers in moments like now, when the numbers are starting to lose sense to her. It would be such a relief if she could have someone alongside her, and she realises, knows in her heart now, that Jon used to fill that space. No matter how much she cares for him, it is only now that she properly sees her life without him, and she is not sure she likes it. 

She drags herself out of her thoughts. She shouldn't think like this. Missing him is a hole she doesn't wish to fall into, because she knows where it leads: right into forgiveness, and that is a prospect that fills her with dread as of now. She remembers all too well his promises, and how he broke them, to think she can trust him blindly again. She is a fool to think he is completely selfless. 

She shakes her head to clear it, puts away the ledgers and moves to the window, looks out at the ragged camps stretching far beyond the walls. She is sure Winterfell has never seen a host this large, and never one united behind one cause. Ribbons of smoke trail up towards the sky, and Sansa wonders what it is like out there, if everyone has what they need. She hasn't spoken to Arya in a while. 

Arya is in charge of food distribution, and checks whatever changes are made to the camp. She is Sansa's eyes and ears out there, and Sansa doesn't know what she would do without her. Her information and advice has proved vital more than once. 

If there is unrest, Arya knows. If the north part of the camp hasn't been fed properly in days, Arya knows. Sansa does not have time to simply go outside and talk to everyone, like Arya is so fond of doing, and she'll never be able to befriend them and walk amongst them as Arya does. Arya will forever be called Ned's little girl by the ones old enough to remember their father, but Sansa is Lady Stark now. Jon once told her how a lord can never be too close to his lieges, in case he must send them forth to die, and that is exactly what she is being forced to do. 

Arya is not ready to take charge of an entire army, that is Jon's place, but she has taken charge of a group of volunteers that grows every single day. Sansa feels pride swell in her heart at seeing them train in one of the provisory yards, Arya besting her soldiers time and time again, and teaching them until they fight well enough to decently defend themselves. 

She has noticed that Arya's second in command, a man named Gendry who she heard went beyond the Wall with Jon, is the person Arya spends most of her time with. Arya is growing up in more aspects of her life, and Sansa sees how she blushes when she mentions the boy's strength, or compliments her on her good choice of helper. 

She catches herself sighing, and reminds herself she should stop Time moves too fast these days. There is barely over a week left until the host leaves, and there is nothing to do but scrabble for food and hope they will all make it through. Her sister is a woman, her brother is a ghost, and the man who is now her cousin keeps her between resentment and devotion, with only shadows to comfort her. How the times have changed, indeed. 

\---

When she sees him again, dark circles under his eyes and a weight slumping his shoulders, Jon has decided he will announce his parentage this evening. _Ever the image of chivalry_ , Sansa thinks bitterly, for Jon's reasoning is that he would make a very bad lord indeed if he lied to their bannermen longer than necessary. (A thousand quips comes to mind, each one crueller than the other, but Sansa bites her tongue. He has enough needling him without her as well. She is sure he feels guilt enough.) 

They all gather in the great hall, another modest meal served, and the weakest ale brought up at Sansa's request. She will not have the lords drunk and ready to brawl when they announce their message. 

Spirits are high, for a war waiting at their doorstep, but Sansa supposes there isn't much more to do than enjoy themselves. After this awaits a long, cold march North, and they might not see ale for months, even years. 

Sansa dreads thinking of this war lasting so long. With such a tireless enemy, most of them are sure to be exhausted enough to fall clean into the snow and never rise again. Only, she remembers, they will rise, as the Night King's soldiers. Sansa shivers, as Jon rises and the hall quiets. 

"It is important in these times, that we put away our differences and stand together as one," he says, and it looks to be the start of a speech they've all heard a thousand times. That could not be further from the truth. "Which is why I think it is important we are honest with each other." A murmur passes through the crowd, but quickly disappears in anticipation. 

Jon takes a deep breath, and yet Sansa knows it won't prepare him. These are the moments when kingdoms fall. She wishes despite herself that she could sit closer to him. "It has been discovered that my true father is not Eddard Stark, but Rhaegar Targaryen, and that I am his trueborn son with Lyanna Stark." 

A moment passes, where strings are connected and the tapestry of their history reveals a whole other thread they knew nothing of. 

The room erupts, much like the Blackwater did all those years ago. But the flames are present as thoughts and opinions, voices burning up all the trust Eddard Stark built, and Jon, as well. Jon is already shouting for people to quiet, and the hall is so loud she feels her head might burst. She hears fragments through the cacophony, tiny pieces that slit through her like arrows, 

" _All these years-_ " 

"- _lies_ , I tell you, _liars_ all-" 

"-how will we trust a _Targaryen ever again-_ " 

"If _Sansa was Queen-_ " 

It's only a taste, the faint echo of a shout as Jon succeeds in calming the lords, but the words are sharp in everyone's ears. Dangerous, like an open flame in a forest that hasn't seen rain in years, and they all know it. The air feels thick and suffocating, like the black smoke of a fire. 

Whoever said it must have succumbed to madness, but the room isn't far from it. Everyone holds their breaths, keeps entirely still. A wrong word, a wrong move, and the world is set on fire, truly, this time. Dragons are breathing down their necks. Sansa rises carefully. 

"My Lords, my Ladies," she starts, voice cool like ice. She prays it can heal the burn just like it. "I am well aware this changes our situation gravely, but we have made our pledge, and I mean to stand by it. What are we worth if we sway our loyalty as soon as these truths are revealed? _Jon is not your lord, I am!_ And I have made my decision. I trust you to keep to yours." 

The room stays quiet. The air still reeks of distaste and loose ends, ready to catch flame as soon as you brush past them, but Sansa has done all she can. "There will be a meeting regarding how this affects us on the morrow. Our bannermen are invited, as well as Queen Daenerys' advisors. I hope to see you all then. For now, you are dismissed. Goodnight, my Lords." 

Everyone is staring at her. Jon is staring like she's just pulled him out of a sinking ship, Daenerys like she's holding her heart in her hands. She stares intently back at the latter, willing her to understand. _Do you see what I've been saying all along? Do you see that I am loyal to you, as I have pledged?_

Daenerys nods, looks away. Sansa supposes that is as much confirmation as she will get. Arya is all tensed and sensitive, ready to attack at any moment, but Sansa can't bear the room anymore. She leaves, whispers following her outside and thickening as she turns into the stone hallways. Jon trails behind her, she notices, and he stops her just before her door. 

"Thank you," he says, and it's so genuine she could hug him, but the impulse only annoys her, reminds her how weak she is. 

"I didn't do it for you," she says, but it's a lie, and she knows it in every piece of her as she says it. But of course she did it, and of course she did it for him. Somewhere in her chest, the piece that once belonged to him aches and tries to pull him back. She only barely stomps it down enough to stay still. 

She can't look at him anymore. She turns and slams the door shut before he can come after her. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry this took so long! I've been on vacation a week and I also just couldn't get this right for the longest time, but I hope it turned out okay. Thanks for all the response you've given me for this fic, I swear you're the sweetest! (Chapter title from 'Youth' by Daughter.


	4. Well this is awkward

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> :/

So. It’s been a good long while since I started this fic, and while I do have a lot of it written out, I’ve decided I won’t continue with it. I’ve changed my mind about a lot of things since writing this, and I simply dislike the way this fic is going. There are some things I like, but a lot of things I don’t, and if I’m not really liking what I write I don’t see the point. I have, however, decided not to delete it, since this is my most popular fic and the feedback I got on this honestly made me feel so much better and really made me confident in my writing. I’m so grateful to everyone who took the time to leave kudos or to comment, and I’m not deleting this fic in case someone else can still be entertained by it. I’m sorry, but this is how it’s got to be. Thanks again to everyone who supported this!!


End file.
